


Tramontana

by chantefable



Category: Vèntô Aquilònê - I Trillanti (Song)
Genre: Devils, Gen, Hell, Metaphors, Philosophy, Self-Acceptance, Self-Discovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 20:31:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18924469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chantefable/pseuds/chantefable
Summary: So the north wind howls and repeats its plea, and the people of the valley still curl up around each other, all limbs and trust and fragile warmth like a bright streak in the bleak and terrifying cold.





	Tramontana

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Quillori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quillori/gifts).



"Exegi monumentum aere perennius regalique situ pyramidum altius, quod non imber edax,  
non aquilo impotens possit diruere aut innumerabilis annorum series et fuga temporum."

(Horace, Odes, III, 30)

Aquilone is a type of Northern wind, or tramontana.

In the system of Mediterranean winds, the directions of the winds are as follows: tramontana - from the North, grecale from the North-East, levante from the East, scirocco from the South-East, ostro from the South, libeccio from the South-West, ponente from the West and maestrale from the North-West.

Therefore, we shall say that tramontana is a cold wind originating in the North; and aquilone, more specifically, is a strong, impetuous cold wind coming from the Northern and North-Eastern direction.

Is that not well said? But -

_A thing is not necessarily true because badly uttered, nor false because spoken magnificently._

What of the other winds? Do they creep, do they crawl, do they hurry, do they linger, do they rush through the mountains from all directions? Winds of the East, of the South and of the West? Do they bring respite or satiety? Do they come at all, levante, ponente, ostro? Or do they halt at the mountains' edge?

They do. Therefore, we shall say that the other winds are cowardly, and they do not dare to enter the valley. Enveloped by the stern mountain ridge, it is stretched tight and open, vulnerable to the ravishing gaze of the skies. And only tramontana comes, like a lord to its domain, lurching over the precipice and filling the valley with cold, impetuous air, as if there is nothing else beyond the mountains, only hellish freezing cold.

Is that not well said? But -

Who is frustrated thus, terrified of the bold cold wind and seeking shelter? Who prays for piety, chastity and continence, but not right now? Who seeks to pluck fruit in the storm and in the blizzard? Who says, "It is winter, and winter is hell, and it comes from the devil." Who says, "We are stranded here, in limbo perhaps for all eternity, and perhaps believing it is limbo is what makes us trapped in hell, a wicked kind of hope..." Who says these things?

There they are.

Is that not well and truly obvious? But listen, listen, listen to the wind. Listen to the howl of the tramontana. It screams and it says -

_I became evil for no reason. I had no motive for my wickedness except wickedness itself. It was foul, and I loved it. I loved the self-destruction, I loved my fall, not the object for which I had fallen but my fall itself. My depraved soul leaped down from your firmament to ruin. I was seeking not to gain anything by shameful means, but shame for its own sake._

So it yowls and insists, and the people cling to each other even closer in the cold. Sinners and wise men curl up together, sharing breath and heartbeat, and one of them says (a sinner, a wise man, a saint) what he has been saying for centuries as the wind from the North returned over and over again. One of them says, with a crack in his voice - 

_That it is not we who sin, but some other nature sinned in us._

"Know us to be beyond blame. We did nothing wrong and we do not to have to confess that we had done wrong, for we had not. Are souls are blameless and shall be excused. It is something else which is not us. It is the wind. It is the wind around us and inside us. Assuredly, it is not us, for we are pious and undivided in our piety. The wind brings it all, an incurable decease, and turns us into its liking, into what it deems us." 

So they all repeat, a chorus battling with the music of the stormy wind of the North.

So tramontana howls and repeats its plea, and the people of the valley still curl up around each other, all limbs and trust and fragile warmth like a bright streak in the bleak and terrifying cold. All kinds of wise sinners and all kinds of wise men corrupted be experience draw closer and closer to each other until they are nothing but a ball of limbs and prayers, sharing breath and heartbeat, and then one of them says (the same one, always the same, for centuries) the words as the wind from the North upturns and upheaves what is never at rest. One of them screams over the wind, with a crack in his voice, for he shares his misconceptions - "I erred. I erred time and time again, and spoke in error."

_For it still seemed to me “that it is not we who sin, but some other nature sinned in us.” And it gratified my pride to be beyond blame, and when I did anything wrong not to have to confess that I had done wrong. … I loved to excuse my soul and to accuse something else inside me (I knew not what) but which was not I. But, assuredly, it was I, and it was my impiety that had divided me against myself. That sin then was all the more incurable because I did not deem myself a sinner._

So the wind fills the cup of the mountain-encased valley to the brim with snow and tears, finally finding relief in affinity, and listens to the beating of hundreds of hearts.

And the wiser man says, shedding the shell and bracing himself, embracing the cold of the tramontana:

_My inner man knew these things through the ministry of the outer man, and I, the inner man, knew all this — I, the soul, through the senses of my body._

That is when the music grows louder and the wind grows stronger, imbued with soul, for the man becomes wind and wind becomes man, no less biting but having confessed.

And the man looks onto the wind, onto tramontana, the strong, impetuous cold wind from the North, and onto himself, and he says as the valley shakes under their chilling breath -

_Too late I loved you, O Beauty ever ancient and ever new! Too late I loved you! And, behold, you were within me, and I out of myself, and there I searched for you.  
_

**Author's Note:**

> Augustine of Hippo (354 – 430) was a Roman African, early Christian theologian and philosopher. Various works from his oeuvre were quoted to suggest an ambiguously philosophical character interacting with an ambiguously devil-like wind-person character in a quasi-mythological purgatory space of nebulous geographical characteristics.  
> The initial idea for the story sprung to life from the fact that some authors specifically associate aquilone wind (a type of tramontana) with Lucifer's dominion on Earth, and Saint Augustine also had some ideas in that regard. Then the story took two left turns somewhere on the metaphor road to deconstruction, I guess.  
> The epigraph quote is from Horace, where he refers to aquilone wind as well:
> 
> I have built a monument  
> Which will last more years than bronze,  
> Which will reach far higher than  
> That royal pile of Pyramids,  
> Which gnawing rain and furious  
> North winds lack power to destroy,  
> Nor chain of years, nor flight of time.
> 
> (Translation by Peter Saint-Andre)
> 
> Specific quotes from St Augustine:
> 
> I became evil for no reason. I had no motive for my wickedness except wickedness itself. It was foul, and I loved it. I loved the self-destruction, I loved my fall, not the object for which I had fallen but my fall itself. My depraved soul leaped down from your firmament to ruin. I was seeking not to gain anything by shameful means, but shame for its own sake. (Confessions, II, 4)
> 
> A thing is not necessarily true because badly uttered, nor false because spoken magnificently. (Confessions, V, 6)
> 
> For it still seemed to me “that it is not we who sin, but some other nature sinned in us.” And it gratified my pride to be beyond blame, and when I did anything wrong not to have to confess that I had done wrong. … I loved to excuse my soul and to accuse something else inside me (I knew not what) but which was not I. But, assuredly, it was I, and it was my impiety that had divided me against myself. That sin then was all the more incurable because I did not deem myself a sinner. (Confessions, V, 10, translation by Outler)
> 
> My inner man knew these things through the ministry of the outer man, and I, the inner man, knew all this — I, the soul, through the senses of my body. (Confessions, X, 6)
> 
> Too late I loved you, O Beauty ever ancient and ever new! Too late I loved you! And, behold, you were within me, and I out of myself, and there I searched for you. (Confessions, X, 27, translation by Van Hildebrand)


End file.
